Birdsong
Some days my friend becomes
a river that breathes gently
under a flawless July sky.
She’s not in danger, although
I sneak peeks from the dusty bank
just to be sure.
She asks if I love her yet and I reply
with a song stolen from a chickadee,
the kind with the black velvet cap.
I bet you can’t sing like a robin,
she says, before I turn into a dragonfly
and hover above her watery belly.
We decide to leave in late afternoon,
after the wind picks up; I reach out
to pull her back to earth.
What a day, we decide – her flowing
toward the source, me skimming
with paper-thin wings.
Ask me again, I say, still not sure
how I’ll reply.
Fistfight in a Small Town Bar
You know how it goes; someone’s woman or someone’s manhood. It’s usually after midnight, while the summer heat hangs sticky and wet. Plastic pitchers of draft beer; someone takes another shot of cheap whiskey. Volume up on the voices. The point of no return as the two combatants rise to the beat of Boot Scootin’ Boogie. Then the mutual mauling – punches thump, shirts rising, exposed beer-bloated bellies, friends weighing in: Kick his ass. Bare knuckles connecting with teeth. Bloodied noses. The bartender watches while toweling dry a shot glass. Outside, flies are as big as horses. It’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow we say later, smoking cigarettes in the parking lot while the flies look to pick a fight of their own, hissing and buzzing.
© Bruce Gunther
Bruce Gunther is a former journalist who lives in Michigan and writes poetry and fiction. He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in the Comstock Review, Remington Review, Millennial Pulp, Modern Haiku, and others.
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